


The Passing Of Time

by Poison_Bubble



Category: Original Work
Genre: But I think it's also kinda cool and meta?, Gen, I just wrote this a long time ago and wanted somewhere to put it I guess, It's pretty depressing lmao, So here if you want it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-24 20:03:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20913329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poison_Bubble/pseuds/Poison_Bubble
Summary: I wrote this in class Junior year of high school; that was one of the darkest periods of my life. I had picked up writing as a weird sort of coping mechanism and wrote out whatever came to mind. This one in particular was unique to the others because it was never edited, and I had typed it while listening to music, something that makes my adhd brain go blank. In short, that means this is basically my subconsciousness written out at the time, which I think is pretty cool in its own way.





	The Passing Of Time

The glaze over her eyes was persistent; even as she blinked rapidly, the haze continued to blur the world around her. She tried to slow her breaths to a consistent tempo. In, out… In, out… But the only thing she managed to do was increase the amount of air she gulped in rapidly. In, in, in, in. Out in one large rush, as if the dark atmosphere around her had ripped it from her lungs. She couldn’t stop. Not here, not now. But there was nowhere to run.  _ Fuck…  _ She had thought this whole thing was a great idea initially. Back when it was proposed, the concept of interdimensional travel was marveling, impossible even. But that was this morning. Or was it last week? Time wasn’t really a base construct anymore. Nothing was. Here there was darkness and infinite chaos. There wasn’t really any other way to describe it. There wasn’t ever really anywhere to go, even in the home dimension, though was there? Nowhere but death. And even though that idea wasn’t exactly pretty or comforting, it was reality, it had purpose, concept, structure. It was something to stand on. There was no such anchor here. Or was there ever an anchor? A place to call home? No. She supposed there wasn't. Which is why she left in the first place. But now that that all was gone, the clarity of endless nothingness, she was floating in uncertainty. And this was so, so much worse. Nothing was chasing her. She wasn’t sure why she was running. Maybe she thought that if she continued to run she’d end up somewhere. But that was ridiculous. There was no direction, and certainly no destination. So there really was no point in running anywhere. She knew this. And yet, as is instinct, she couldn’t stop. She was terrified of the nothing that stretched endlessly beyond her. For once, she was relevant. But only because she was the only thing that was. How lonely, how pathetic an existence. And if one has no other half, no purpose, then why exist at all? This, and nothing else, was coursing through our character’s veins. I say “character” meaning many things, although she is but one. Perhaps you relate personally to our protagonist. Or maybe this is some sick form of procrastination. Either and all ways, it won’t matter. You read to go somewhere, to travel mentally. However, this is not the case with this story. This small tale goes nowhere, just as our character. Ah, but this entices you more. “What if it did go somewhere? I wouldn’t want to miss out on that. I want to see how this ends.” This may be what you’re thinking. But, unfortunately for you, dear reader, if that you be, this won’t happen. Because in order for this story to go anywhere, the writer has to take it somewhere and take you with her. But the writer of this story is writing this as a form of processing. Processing the nothing that encases her daily. And you see, reader, this is an endless cycle that never ends. This story is to speed up the endless sap that is the passage of time for our writer. And a passage that she knows has to end at some point. Usually she would indulge in something much faster paced, much more stimulating. However, our writer is here since those things would be in direct disregard for the others around her, who have expressed annoyance at her behavior and said indulgence many times before. Maybe it’s a good sign she’s finally listening. Or is it, dear reader? Is it problematic for you for this story to exist? She will leave this story undone. Likely forever. This wouldn’t be an issue, however, if there were no readers. But then why write? To write has the exact purpose of being read. And this is where our “character” finds herself. But why must she be running? What is she running from? Has she ever simply walked? Has she ever observed those around her, simply walking in the sun, enjoying the simple things they encounter upon their walk? Why run if there’s nowhere to go? Where does she think she’s going? Surely she believes there’s a destination, otherwise she wouldn’t run with such disregard for those who tell her to simply walk. And why does she not listen? What does she think will come of it? I’m sure not even she knows. Ah, but to be aware of all this is so lonely, so pointless. Why isn’t it common to wonder where this all leads? Not necessarily where it started, but how it will end? Religion is not an option, for that’s simply a lazy excuse to claim we already have these answers when, in actuality, we never have and probably never will. How sad it must be to live unable to believe something so easy to live through. To have the simple mind pleased by the simple solutions… Must be nice. Is something wrong with our writer? Maybe. But who could say? We only have our own perspectives, and no one’s truly interested in the other’s. Why does time pass so slowly? Why is it that hours can feel like seconds yet seconds can feel like years? It’s a common question, and yet we still don’t really have an answer. We probably never will. Our brains are too complicated to truly understand. Or maybe we will one day, but to live to see that… unlikely. One hour. That’s how long we need to stay in place. To sit in a chair for one hour without company or interest is extremely difficult for our writer, you see, and feels like literal torture. The feeling of pressing keys mixed with loud music is barely enough to keep her sane. Yes, she is indeed a puzzle. Why is it that most people her age can do this task just fine and yet…? She can’t stand it. What a distraction. What a disturbance to society. It’s not fair. But then again, the world never is. And maybe that’s a good thing. For those that are the common archetypes, those who are distractions are funny for the boring moments. The times in which there’s nothing in particular to do, they’re fun to laugh at, to point at, to view. But only, it seems, when they can be turned off. A comedy show, a YouTube video, or maybe a movie. Take your pick. The successful ones are the distractions in society. But here’s the interesting part: you can flawlessly copy the personality of a character everyone loves on screen, but they won’t love you. They’ll hate you, more like. They’re not feeling the need to be entertained, and so the relationship for that type of behavior goes from entertaining and funny to annoying and distracting. It’s a strange phenomenon, but it’s the world we live in. This may be a large part of why our writer prefers fiction to reality. If only she were in fiction, maybe then she’d be loved and appreciated. Boo hoo. Reality is the only thing anyone here can live, and that’s how it will always be. Wake up. No one sympathizes with you. No one cares. No one’s gonna pour pity on you just because you can’t control your damn self. This is the part you somehow can’t wrap around that petty little ego of yours. And yet, this may be the most important thing of all. That no one cares as much as you. Because you are you. And maybe that’s what you hate. Yourself. The fact that in order to change, you have to try, and that’s the last thing you want to do. Maybe, dear writer, you should step back and look at your current situation. You have no readers. No one’s reading this. You’re writing into the void. And this seems to be something you’ve made a habit of. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism. Maybe you’re just an idiot. Or maybe both. No matter the reason, this isn’t going anywhere. You’re running, gasping for breath, breathing in more and more air, desperately clawing for some sort of tempo, some sort of structure. You won’t find it here. You may never find it going the way you are. But we both know you can’t just walk like the others. So maybe you don’t have any other choice here. Maybe you’ll be running forever, never truly satisfied despite your effort at what you perceive as trying. And as we reach the end of these two pages, and we close this strange form of a self-rant, I’d like to leave you with one last closing question: Did you truly write this only for yourself? 

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is sort of depressing and weird, and I know it doesn't make a ton of sense, but I remember re-reading this would help me somewhat during the really dark times. It's not positive, nor is it character-developing, but it helped. I guess I hope it can help someone else? Or maybe at least be entertaining. At the very most, I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
